Chicken Soup for the Sick Soul
by SMNJ
Summary: What happens when two ill, cross people get in a dispute over their favourite chicken soup? Dramione, post-war one-shot, rated T for language! Based off a prompt in a Tumblr post I will leave in the Author's Note.


**Hi! This is something I made in between chapters for the Arthur Returns AU Series. It's based off a prompt from this tumblr post: post/99399784683/aus**

 **Disclaimer: I own nothing btw. JK Rowling has that happy advantage. I just like playing with the characters. Like _puppets._**

 **...Enjoy!**

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"Fuck this – no – fuck everything," she cussed, as she determinedly shuffled down the cold cobble-stoned road to the small department store, the sweet aromas of mead and gingerbread not reaching her blocked nostrils. All she could feel was the numbing throb in her temples and frostbite nipping at her stuffy nose. Gorgon Street was usually pretty void of people, but because all the goddamned stars above hated her so much, the street was suddenly full to the rim of loud boisterous people. She pulled her Trelawney-esque shawl more tightly around her thin frame.  
Hermione was a sniffly, ill-tempered mess who wasn't in the mood for anything, which is precisely why her favorite back-up chicken noodle soup with minimal spice for scratchy throats concoction had decided to run out. Despite being so frustratingly sick, she was still secretly pleased she had an excuse not to go to her dead-end, boring office job at a small, insignificant department in the Ministry. Who cares? Who the hell cares?  
She scampered a little quicker as another dry burst of wind blasted into her face. She hurried through the automated doors, and was greeted by the flickering of bright florescent lighting and a witch with a very forced smile handing out vibrantly colored flyers.  
Hermione not-so-politely denied one of said flyers as she advanced into the store, wiping a bit of snot from under her up-turned nose. Once in the aisle, she started perusing the shelves for her exact errand. After scanning the shelves with her sharp eyes so red and swollen from the constant rubbing and nights spent twisted in her bed sheets, she finally spotted it.  
Heinz's Classic Chicken Noodle Soup for the Sick Soul- Wizard's Buff. Smacking her lips, she reached for the last solitary can.  
But again, because the almighty void, Jesus, Zeus, Buddha, everything hated her, another hand reached for the same object of desire. Another hand (one gloved in leather, might she add), had grabbed her soup. Her soup.  
Hers.  
"Um, excuse me, but this is mine!"  
She looked up at the selfish other, who was about a head taller than her. To her shock, her eyes met with familiar cold grey ones, which were nearly as bloodshot as hers. Both of them jumped back, dropping the can.  
"Granger?"  
"Malfoy?"  
"Well, well," Malfoy sneered, before coughing and sniffling. Hermione attempted to cross her arms, which was hard due to the thickness of two sweaters and a coat. Narrowing her eyes, her jaw jutted out as it always did when she was irritated.  
"What are you doing here? Aren't you on parole or something?" she inquired stiffly through her clenched teeth, trying hard not to breathe so heavily from her mouth.  
"On the contrary, Granger," he replied, with the same stiff lip, "I've been let off."  
"Let off?"  
"Good behavior."  
She huffed, then retorted, "more like a bit of bribery on your hand, am I right?"  
"That helped a little," he smirked.  
She shook her head, her thick bushy hair swaying as she debated whether he was joking or not. Her gaze fell again to the can of soup which lay on its side between the two of them. His eyes also fell on the upturned can, which was starting to roll away.  
Before Hermione could even think of taking action, Malfoy's quick seeker reflexes snatched it off the reflective ground.  
"Well, nice catching up with you!" he smirked again, before turning away to leave with his prize.  
"Oh no you don't," she snarled, turning him around by the shoulder and grabbing the soup as well, "this is mine, I took it first!"  
"No you didn't! My fingers clearly wrapped around it!"  
"That is such a lie! I'm wearing mittens, that's why I dropped it!"  
They started playing a childish tug-of-war for the can, which was getting a bit dented from both of their strong grips.  
"Why do you even want it anyway? I'm in actual need of it!"  
"I'm sick!" shrieked Hermione.  
"So am I!" snapped Malfoy, "sicker than you!"  
"How on earth would you even know that? I've been sniffling for weeks! I need this soup!"  
"Sniffling? Sniffling?! I'm coughing up a lung every other minute, how do you think that feels?!"  
"My throat is killing me, as it's drier than the air outside!"  
"I constantly feel like I'm on the Knight bus, what with the nausea I'm feeling!"  
Hermione exhaled sharply, pulling as hard as her fatigued body would allow. They both almost bumped into the stocked shelves next to them, as people started to stare.  
"I've been itchy- everywhere!" she challenged.  
"I've been puking the lunch I ate seven years ago!"  
"That's not even flippin' possible!"  
"Well that's just how sick I am!" he yelled nastily, tugging the can to his chest.  
"Oh for fuck's- take this!"  
She let go of the soup, which resulted in Malfoy flying backwards with all the force he was using to pull, right into the shelf behind them. An elderly woman shrieked on the other side, as Malfoy came crashing down with the entire thing. Then, with all the anger of a raging boar, Hermione proceeded to throw herself on top of Malfoy and attempting to wrench the can from his gloved hands. They rolled around as they both screamed incoherent cusses at the other, tugging for the treasured chicken soup, which was by now almost opening from the top under all the pressure.  
"OI!"  
They both stopped struggling and looked up behind them. There stood a very angry middle-aged woman with flyaway grey hair, clutching a table cloth in a small bony fist. Her bright yellow name tag read 'Sheila, Manager'. Her eyes were dark with fury.  
"What in the bloody name of Merlin do you think you two are doing?!" she rasped, gaping.  
"I –,"started Hermione, her cheeks a bright shade of red.  
"Actually, I don't even want to know- Get out, the both of you!" the witch ordered.  
The roughed up couple slowly got to their feet. Hermione apologized profusely, as she picked up her thick shawl which had fallen when she had launched herself on top of Malfoy. He, a slight tinge of pink, merely got up and power-walked to the exit without so much as a glance at the manager or any of the bewildered customers. Hermione raced after him.  
"Hey, Malfoy! Malfoy!" Hermione shrieked, as she ran through the thick crowd to catch up with him. Malfoy looked over his shoulder, his hands dug deep in his jacket's pockets. He was walking rapidly away from the store with his head down. He turned to a panting Granger.  
"What?"  
"I just-," Hermione stuttered through heaving breaths, before she started shuffling her feet and looking down, "I was gonna ask- there's a grocery store down over on Fig Boulevard- they have a whole lot of soup selections- wanna try finding a can?"  
He peered down at the small figure with the bushy hair, whose cheeks looked like they were burning despite the cold frigid air. He exhaled sharply.  
"Well –," he hesitated, his mind rushing. He had changed in the past couple of years, and this fact had become well known. He had even become a successful healer (who did, yes, occasionally get the man flu), and had donated a large part of his fortune left by his estranged father to numerous charities. Potter had accepted and vouched for him in the papers and in court, and the greater Wizarding World had partially accepted him.  
Granger knew this, he remembered. They had even met a couple times before, while he was still under parole, but they never had any conversations. He narrowed his piercing eyes at her.  
"Why?"  
"Because, well," she bit her lip, her inner monologue screaming at her not to be a complete idiot, "I did sort of tackle you in there. Over soup. I'm embarrassed enough to offer you my company in the quest to find soup for the both of us."  
He peered at her strangely, weighing his consequences. He didn't want to talk to the girl whom he had bullied and ridiculed throughout their school career, and apparently had a good enough nature to offer looking for soup together. He did not want to spend too much time with the woman who had helped save England from a villain who had overpowered and used him. He didn't really want to be in the presence of the witch who had basically saved him along with her friends.  
"It wasn't too good of a tackle anyway, so there's no need for you to feel-," he stumbled on his words, "-embarrassed... I should get going."  
"Okay," she accepted fairly quickly. A part of her was hoping he would decline anyway, and he obviously knew this.  
There was an awkward pause.  
"Well, see you around, I guess," she said quickly.  
"Dear God, I hope not," muttered Malfoy. Hermione heard this, despite the loud bustle of the people around them. She giggled.  
"Agreed. Bye."  
"Bye."  
They went their separate ways. Hermione scuttled away from the scene, asking herself why she had even thought it would be a good idea to invite Malfoy anywhere. Stupid. Her throbbing head was filled with stupid. It was all because of the illness that had taken hold of her entire body, she told herself. She shook her head as she disappeared into the crowd, again pulling her shawl more tightly around her.  
After searching the grocery shop, she still didn't find her desired soup. Stomach flu was, apparently, going around, and everyone wanted that specific soup. She uttered a string of cusses as she finally gave up, deciding she was not in the state to go searching, and so disapperated from the shop into her mediocre, usually bright flat. The scent of cat litter and coffee was pungent enough even for her blocked nose to smell, as she flopped on her gray couch. It creaked suspiciously as she put her feet up on the dark brown coffee table. She sighed heavily.  
She had pulled herself out of a comfortable fetal position in her bed this morning, for what? Not soup, but a disgruntled meeting with her school bully and rival. Fantastic.  
She shuffled into a more comfortable position, reaching for the stack of books on the floor beside her. She pulled out her worn out copy of Pride and Prejudice. She flipped through the pages of her favorite book lazily, coughing a bit as she thought about her meeting with Malfoy. He had changed a lot in the past years, not just in nature, but in his physical appearance as well. He was scruffier, a bit more alive. His eyes weren't so piercing anymore, but in fact softer. It was like actual feelings skirted behind his glassy pupils, which were so red. Actual human emotions.  
She sighed again as she got up to go the washroom, deciding she was in great need of a warm bath full of wizard bath bombs. Time to treat herself.  
A while later, as the sky grew more indigo in color, speckled with a few stars, Hermione had finally gotten out of her stuffy, sickeningly yellow bathroom and was making dinner. Her stomach churned at the idea of ingesting anything that wasn't liquid, but she forced herself to anyway, like her compassionate mother would have done.  
She let the spaghetti boil for a little bit, as she leaned against the counter. She was still wearing her bathrobe, which was now grey from how long she had had it. She could barely afford luxuries like a new bathrobe right now, she needed to save the money for when she inevitably quit her job to seek a more fulfilling career. She didn't return to seventh year in Hogwarts to spend time in a cramped cubicle with a misogynist for a boss.  
She pondered this exciting notion of walking out for a bit as she fed herself a spoonful of chocolate pudding. It technically didn't count as food because it wasn't solid. She loved muggle pudding.  
She was so lost in deep thought that she hardly noticed the tapping on her small window in the adjoined living room. She looked around as she caught herself sneezing, and saw a handsome grey tawny knocking on her glass pane. It had started to snow.  
She pushed herself off the low counter and stepped carefully over her heaps of books and other miscellaneous objects to open the window. The owl hopped in, and shook out the snow in his feathers. He offered his foot to Hermione, to which a medium sized parcel and a small note was attached. She untied it and took the package curiously, after offering the smart creature a place on the perch next to her couch. The owl fluttered over, eating a bit of the food she kept for any messengers she received.  
She unfolded the note first, on which thus was scrawled-

 _Granger,_  
 _In the parcel you will find a little gift. Don't take it personally, but just as a small token of appreciation for getting us both thrown out of a department store._  
 _Malfoy_

She raised an eyebrow, and reached for the parcel. Upon ripping it open, her face lit up at the small can inside. A small can of soup.  
Her soup.  
She smiled faintly, as she bit her lip. She hurried to her coffee table, grabbed a spare bit of parchment and a muggle pen, and wrote a hurried note of her own. She sniffed idly as she read it over, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. She turned to the waiting owl, who was watching her wisely, and handed her short note to him before opening the window once more and letting the owl drop out and soar into the cold evening.  
She turned to the can which sat so dutifully on her counter. Her smile widened. She was going to have a comfort meal tonight. Her favorite kind. Her favorite soup.  
Miles away, a sour Draco Malfoy sat in his dark office lit only by a gas lamp and the light spilling from the hallway of his relatively modest home. He was filling out patient files, sipping a bit of his hot tea and rubbing his scratchy eyes, as well as coughing weakly into his arm. How ironic that he, a healer, was sick, he thought to himself for the 101st time in the past hour.  
He dragged his hand through his platinum blonde hair as he leaned back into his seat. He sighed in frustration, and groaned from his headache.  
It was then he heard a faint tapping at the window.  
He got up, still moaning, and opened the window easily. The owl plopped in and handed him a note, before flying to his perch behind Malfoy's large office desk.  
Malfoy rubbed his eyes some more before he looked down at the note. His apprehensive eyes skitted over the messily scrawled letters, before he grinned. He shook his head with a genuine smile as he threw himself back into his chair and inspected the note one more time. He chuckled at the message, which quickly turned into a bad case of wheezing. Once he settled down again, he threw the note onto the desk and stared at it a while.  
He grabbed the bell sitting on the corner of his working surface and rang it. A small elf apparated in front of him.  
"Yes, master?"  
"Muffy, I want you to do me a small favor," he sighed.  
"Of course, master!"  
"Will you tell the grocer to order some more berries and a bit of protein powder when he next sends us the groceries?"  
"Yes, master. Right away, master. Anything else, sir?"  
"I-," he considered a minute, before answering, "No, that's all... actually, no – fetch me my contact list, leave it in my bedroom. I have meeting to arrange with the head of the Events Organizations Department of the Ministry of Magic."  
"Yes, master. Good night, master."  
"Good night."  
The elf disappeared. Malfoy stared at the note again, smiling slightly. Yes, he had a meeting with the head of the department to make. A certain someone was in need for a better job, he knew. Better job somewhere, he thought idly, in management. Or enforcement. Or even… healing. He was going to get her infamous boss to give her full pension and everything he owed her, so she can live comfortably after quitting (he knew, somehow, that she would eventually gather the courage) and looking for a better job.  
He wouldn't tell her, of course, as she would be most indignant. He would simply nudge her in the right direction, so she wouldn't worry about trivial things like money. He wanted to make sure she was comfortable as she searched for something better, and he was going to make sure her soon to be ex-boss would give her that.  
He never appreciated his fortune more than when he had to do service for the poor after the war. Granger didn't deserve any of that. No one did. Why should he reap the benefits? He hardly believed he deserved it.  
His mind made preparations as he rapped his knuckles idly. He glanced once more at the note, before getting up to have a spot of dinner before bed. He was really sleepy.  
The note, in the future, would become a prized possession for Master Draco Malfoy. It becomes the first of many more letters to come. It read:  
 _Malfoy,_  
 _Don't worry, I won't take it personally. I'll only take it as evidence that Draco Malfoy might have changed a bit after all. Who knows, you might secretly be a Mr. Darcy._  
 _Also, this doesn't change that I'm still sicker than you._  
 _Yours,_  
 _Hermione_

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